


Pompeii

by orphan_account



Series: Modern AU; Cecil/Carlos [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:51:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil still cannot figure out the difference between a chai latte and a regular latte. Dana is determined to change that. </p><p>Coffeehouse! AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pompeii

.

Cecil stares at the chalk board with a furrowed brow. In elegant, sloping cursive there are prices for five different types of a substance called “espresso”. It’s embarrassing, really, how he doesn’t have the faintest clue as to what that is.

“Can I help you?” A sweet, crisp voice taps his shoulder and smiles politely.

“You can try,” he says, a little cheesy. She laughs, and Cecil catches sight of her nametag. Mother always told him it pleased people when they were addressed by their first name.

“Dana, is it?” He makes no effort to conceal looking at her tag. She smiles again, teeth brilliantly white against pink gums.

“It is,” Her smile truly is delightful. Cecil would risk a gulp of this foul beverage just to acquire her friendship.

“I’m not sure what your name is, though,”

“Cecil,” he says, and he smiles too. Dana nods, and he imagines she always does that when sealing information in her brain.

“Let me show you around, Cecil,” And so she does.

.

Two months in, and Cecil is still hopeless at coffee. But his friendship with Dana makes him willing to learn as much as he can, muttering about _lattes_ and _frappuccinos_ under his breath on the train. He’s starting to warm up to the scent of coffee too, inhaling deeply and thinking of the roasted beans, the sweaty workers, the sterile shipping trucks. It fills him with something he hasn’t felt since he left Night Vale. If he’s honest, coffee shops inspire that quiet, peaceful atmosphere.

At least, most of the time. Cecil is sipping a cafe macchiato when he hears it first, the litany of angry words streaming through no filter whatsoever.

“What do you mean the card isn’t valid? I had it checked yesterday!”

He feels a groan and suppresses it. Of all the people who could’ve come here, it had to be Night Vale’s personal douchebag.

Cecil is about to march over there but the responding voice stops him in his tracks.

“I’ve told you, sir. It must have expired sometime between yesterday and today. If you would like, we also accept debit and cash,”

Smoother and richer than any coffee he’s tasted, Cecil can only gape at the voice. It warms his stomach and settles like an espresso, curling heat around his ears and throat. And then he sees the man of the voice, the beautiful perfect man in the stained apron, dark curls squashed under the employee’s garb. His lashes are long, thick and jagged against the paler eyelid. He hardly notices Steve Carlsberg stalking angrily away from the counter. The man calls up the next customer, brow arching when Cecil fails to realize it’s him.

Embarrassed, flushed from head to toe, Cecil orders a simple java. The man hands him the coffee and smiles, and it’s only then Cecil has to pull himself away from the brilliance of it. Once he’s seated at a table, suddenly too hot with the steaming drink and his own blushing face, Cecil risks a glance in his direction. The man efficiently swipes credit cards and pours drinks and twitches his mouth whenever he smiles.

Cecil gawks, mouth hanging open unattractively. Dana slides past him, a complimentary gift card making its way to Steve. “His name is Carlos, by the way,” she offers, unable to hide the smirk.

Carlos. The name rolls around his mouth, sits comfortably on his tongue and burrows its way into Cecil’s heart. It isn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

.

It takes Cecil three round trips from the counter to build up the courage to talk to Carlos. When he does, Carlos is there in his nervous glory, sleeves rolled up to tanned expanses of muscle and bone. Cecil gulps.

“Hello, Carlos,” Oh dear, is it too forward to address him by his name?

“Hello,” Carlos looks pleased, mouth twitching upwards. “What can I do for you?” There are so many things he could do, it makes Cecil blush from just thinking them. Instead, he thrusts out his empty cup, hastily asking for a refill.

Carlos takes the cup from him, and their fingers brush. Warm milk and coffee beans fill his cup, Cecil watches transfixed as Carlos busies himself around, the look of concentration drawing lines around his eyes. A small heart, white and already sinking, floats on his espresso.

“Thanks,” he says, and even the practised, professional smile Carlos gives him warms Cecil to his toes. He may be reading into things, but it seemed almost genuine, the way the wrinkles bunch erratically on the left side of Carlos’ face when he smiles.

.

“Are you going to ask Carlos out or not?” Dana demands, sliding into his chair and placing a hand over his binder. Cecil startles, looking up from his communication studies. The notes are clear, highlighted pink and green, but he still can’t make any sense of them. Radio is different in the city.

“I’ve known him for three months, Dana,” he whispers, hoping no one (Carlos, if Carlos heard he would _die_ ). “I can’t just walk up and take him on a date. He hardly knows me,”

“He knows your coffee order. That counts for something, right?”

“ _You_ know it, Dana. It’s not something special,” Dana smiles at him, and her eyes go soft and round like they always do when she’s filled with conviction. Cecil tries not to fall for it, but he can feel his resolve slipping away.

“But it is special, Cecil. Look,” She leans forward, crossing her elbows. “Carlos has been working here for a while, and none of us really got the chance to know him. I mean, we know he’s a scientist and he needs the money, but we don’t know anything else,”

“And let me tell you something, Cecil. Ever since you showed up, Carlos sort of, just, opened up. Like a desert flower, or something. He even asked me about the weather today!”

Cecil sighs, but he can’t deny the way his chest is constricting, almost painful with how happy he is, how happy he could be.

“It could work, Cecil. I swear,” And he’s falling for it, of course he is, Dana is the captain of the debate club and spends her working hours convincing people overpriced caffeine will make life better. Another sigh, but it’s the happiness now, letting out like a balloon.

“Alright,” he concedes, unable to keep from smiling.

“Alright,” says Dana, and her eyes are sparkling.

.

The next time Cecil walks up, his chest is bursting with determination and pride. It puffs out, lifting him higher and higher until Cecil feels the burn of the Sun. He isn’t afraid of it, embracing the warmth on his back as he holds open the door for a young girl. The door jangles, and Cecil catches Carlos looking up to see him. He strides to the counter, noting the absence of a queue. It must be a slow day today.

“Hello, Cecil,” Carlos sends him a smile carved out of mouth, a definite line of pleasure.

“Hello,”

“The usual?” At Cecil’s nod, Carlos prepares to turn to the drink, but Cecil stops him with a halting _wait_.

“Yes?”

“I-I wanted to ask you if you would like to, um, get some coffee with me?” To his complete surprise, Carlos laughs, a breathless sound of sunshine and finger-brushing. If he wasn’t so confused (and scared of rejection) Cecil would like to wax poetic about his voice, how the oaky tones slid around and settled like linoleum.

“ _Coffee_ , Cecil?” And then he realizes the folly of his words, grinning and leaning not-quite-close enough against the counter.

“Anything, Carlos. A movie, a museum, anything. Just a date, with you,” Carlos stops laughing, mouth closed. His lashes lower, a curtain in front of his soul, and Cecil longs to brush them away with his lips and look past them.

“Yes,”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Cecil,”

Oh.

 _Oh._ Carlos takes his arm, gently, thumb pressing into the tendon, and whips out a blue pen. A number is scrawled across, almost illegible, and Cecil decides he loves it, loves the blue chicken scratch so much it hurts. The feel of Carlos’ hand, pressed so firm and warm against his arm, combined with the soft hues of their skin, makes him shiver. Cecil imagines them entangled, swirling like earthy soil and soft clouds, all the way up to the Sun.

“It washes off,”

“What?” Carlos taps the pen against his teeth. Cecil smiles, because really, what else can he do? Another customer lines up behind him and Cecil leaves with a grin plastered to his face, the first time he’s left the counter without buying anything. Carlos’ eyes follow him to his seat, light and playful, and Dana’s untold _I told you so_ rings in his head long before she actually says it.

Cecil doesn’t mind.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Even I cannot figure out the difference between a chai latte and a regular latte. I don’t even drink coffee, or any/all variants thereof.


End file.
